


Stout

by Pie (potteresque_ire)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Comfort/Angst, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-23
Updated: 2011-02-23
Packaged: 2018-12-23 02:37:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11980308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potteresque_ire/pseuds/Pie
Summary: After a brutal raid, Harry bought a pub for the night just so his Auror team didn't have to talk.





	Stout

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2011, for snarkyscorp's prompt "Harry/Scorpius; Pissing Contest". While the kink is watersports, no humiliation or BDSM is involved.

This sad excuse of a pub probably hadn’t seen customers as rowdy or horny as his boys for the longest time. There was nobody here but them, maybe a spider or two responsible for the cobwebs on the half-lit chandeliers, cracked and cocooned in soot in their long fall from grace. The splintered bench rocked under his arse, its colleague wailing and creaking not ten meters away where Roland’s hand had disappeared under the skirt of the only attending barmaid, her bare breasts flapping against her chest as she clawed and screamed.  
  
Harry could have sent them home. Even in his night robe, Shacklebolt would be thrilled to hear about the latest bloodshed committed by his Aurors; about Harry playing hero again; about him earning yet another chance to grace the cover of the  _Prophet_  by sunrise—Harry Potter, perennial Ministry Employee of the Month. Spokeswizard cum Walking Trophy on Display.  
  
And the wives of his boys—that would include Roland, his tongue now the meat of a soggy sandwich between two generous servings of buns—would all be teary and proud to see their men back. They would be keen to offer comfort. Words … in questions. The  _how’s, why’s, what happened_ ’s.  
  
Harry had bought this place for the night just so nobody had to talk.  
  
He helped himself to the barrel beside him. The stout tasted like piss. Appropriately so, seeing how his three trusted—and usually proper—defence wizards had their cocks whipped out for a pissing contest, using the dartboard in an alcove of the pub as their aim.  
  
Pierce, for once, made it high enough to hit the board. At the round of boos and applause, he turned and bowed to the room. Catching the eyes of his boss, he held his cock—a short stub on an impressive pair of balls—and waved it, the mouthful of stout he had just imbibed leaking from the corner his mouth. Harry smiled and raised his mug to the air.  
  
At that instant, someone invited himself onto Harry’s bench.  
  
“You should join them,” said a drawl that sounded no more than a whisper, but no less regal, no less restrained than Harry could ever manage.  
  
Scorpius. The youngest member of the team. The only member Harry was on first name basis with, for “Malfoy” would always mean somebody else.  
  
“Don’t feel like going,” Harry answered as he turned towards Scorpius, who was nursing his mug of stout as if it'd been the finest Ogden’s—or the sweetest, smoothest cup of hot cocoa on Christmas morn’. His robe and Harry’s were the only two in the pub that were properly in place. His eyes were sharp, separated by shallow frown lines as they always had been, as they had when he cast the most brilliant—and most fatal—spells against their enemies.  
  
Only the faint blush on the cheeks gave away … something.  
  
“Then you should drink more,” Scorpius replied. As if to demonstrate, he took another sip of his stout before looking at Harry again. “I, for one, would love to see you going for the bull’s eye.” He placed a light emphasis on  _going_  and his eyes flickered towards the dartboard. “Do salute me afterwards. Like the way Pierce did.”  
  
Scorpius had a way of speaking in commands, no matter who he was speaking to—as if it’d been his birthright to think of everyone as filth.  
  
A precious trait, considering the world had treated Scorpius Malfoy as such. His servitude to the Ministry, his fearless loyalty towards Harry had garnered him nothing but a nickname.  
  
_Judas._  
  
“Why don’t you go yourself?”  
  
Scorpius tilted his chin towards his colleagues, who were too drunk to even aim for their feet. “Pissing contest?” He folded his arms to lean against the table, a willful smile on his lips. “I fear my father won’t appreciate a stinking shower on his Manor. Or on his stupid peacocks.”  
  
They were in Ireland. Miles and miles away from Wiltshire.  
  
Harry couldn’t swallow his chuckle fast enough. “You aim high, Scorpius.” He lifted his mug to his lips. “Always have.” It shouldn’t have been so amusing—his mind’s image of Scorpius watering his dad’s property from afar. And so … mesmerizing; the way Scorpius would flash himself...  
  
With a long swig, Harry emptied his drink. The father and son hadn’t been on good terms since Scorpius had joined the Aurors, but Harry had sworn to never feel any responsibility—or guilt—towards the ill will between them. Even if he had been orchestrating Scorpius’s rise among the ranks of the MLE; even if he had been fueling Scorpius’ desire to … aim high. As a senior Auror with battle scars too deep for St Mungo’s to see, never mind to heal, Harry had spent many nights sleepless, contemplating on a successor the world could entrust with the burden of fighting darkness… of knowing darkness deep in his bones. Scorpius fitted the bill. His fieldwork experience wasn’t much, but his performance was impressive.  
  
Like Harry, Scorpius had instincts—there was filth in his blood just as there was filth in Harry, in his scar and the Horcrux once hidden within; filth that let them recognize and battle its likes…  
  
As Harry tipped his head back, he noticed Scorpius tapping his boots against the floor. That, and the curved spine as the lithe body it belonged to curled up against the edge of the table…  
  
Harry had never caught a nervous gesture in Scorpius before. He refilled his mug and decided that it was a night to drink—and to observe.  
  
Silence soon overtook the two of them.

 

 

  
~*~

  
  
Roland was snoring on top of the barmaid, their slack, naked bodies held together by dried cum. The three wizards under the dartboard had taken their competition outside and had likely fallen asleep somewhere in the woods, judging by how quiet it was inside the pub.  
  
Scorpius was almost done with yet another mug of stout, his third since he’d sat down beside Harry. He had been quiet, his thoughts under an ever-present veil of  _Occlumens_. Although his sipping remained measured, Harry had noticed that he’d never stopped drinking; he’d never stopped staring at the dartboard either, at the soiled wall, the dull yellow piss still dripping occasionally from the peeled paint.  
  
“You and I are the same.” Scorpius had finished his fourth drink when his whispered drawl returned. The frown between his eyes was deeper, and darker were the pupils in his eyes; his torso had bent to the point of hovering just above the table over the past hour—he was fighting a very full bladder, which was made obvious to Harry in the way he fidgeted, the way his legs were locked against one another. There was also a tremor in the pale fingers as Scorpius wiped his lips—fingers that had been steady in the worst of raids, like the one they had just survived. “Our cocks are not dependable enough for pissing contests—or any contests that involve cocks. The sight of them. The sounds …”  
  
Harry felt lucky he’d put down his drink. “Excuse me?”  
  
“You heard.” Alcohol seemed to have Scorpius finally under its mercy. As his eyes connected with Harry’s, he pushed his mug aside and rested his head on the stained and scratched wood. “Just now, I was watching you from behind. Like always.” The breath he took bordered on a sigh, the cold arrogance in his features swept aside by the colour on his cheeks, like the blond hair tracing his strong jawline, or the fresh drops of sweat beading on his forehead.  
  
“The pissing contest made me thirsty. Wanted to drink and so, drank I did. You know why?” Scorpius closed his eyes then, a light gasp escaped from his lips and with it, words that trickled and would soon gain speed—and thunder in Harry’s ears: “I actually wondered what if … what if I go. What if I  _go_  there, under the dartboard. What if you join us then. What if you pull the folds of your robe apart and ... I watch you, Harry. Your cock. Red, thick, and dripping wet. Gorgeous.” He worried his lips and frowned; a squeeze of his crossed legs sent a jerk up all the way up his body. “And so full, it’s got to hurt. You fondle it, you pull on it and swear … all before you catch my eyes … then you lose it and  _go_  and it’s high, it’s all over the place and I …”  
  
A burst of frustration overtook Scorpius. He picked up his mug, then Harry’s—and hauled both against the floor. They landed with a loud thud.  
  
“I humiliate myself. It’s my turn next. I can’t go.” Scorpius slumped against the table once more. Fingers splayed from his balled up fists, his hands fell to his sides, one upon Harry. “They laugh, Pierce, Carter ... Sing  _Wee Judas wets his own bed_. But I can’t go. I can’t go when I’m so hard.” Scorpius’ fingers were making their way towards Harry’s crotch, towards Harry’s bladder that, too, had been filling. “So hard, I need to come first because this—” The fingers found what they’d been looking for; Scorpius spread them and  _pushed_. “—because you just sprayed on me.” A ghost of a smile lifted a corner of his mouth. “On my face, Harry, my lips…”  
  
“It isn’t real, Scorpius.” Harry found his voice. Miraculously.  
  
“Is it not?” The smile had distorted, morphed into a grimace as Scorpius rocked to the same rhythm as Harry was feeling below his abdomen. His other hand remained out of sight; it had to be forcing upon Scorpius’ own fullness the same way,  _kneading_ ,…  
  
… pleasuring himself.  
  
No, it wasn’t pleasure Scorpius was offering. It was agony. Pain. Harry’s legs hadn’t just spread …  
  
On the bench, Scorpius had gone on his knees. “And don’t  _Scorpius_  me,” he whispered, closing in, his hands firmly in position on Harry. On himself. “No  _s_  sounds. I can’t take it anymore. I'm too desperate to go...”  
  
With that, Scorpius straddled upon Harry’s thighs. The new position seemed to catapult him into renewed urgency. “I’m gonna burst like this. Soon.” It was spitfire, the way he drawled again—as if a dam had been broken, the dam that had held mum all the dark, feral fantasies, all the  _filth_  cocooned inside Scorpius. “You’d take it, relish it … you want it as bad as I do, don’t you?” The sleeves of Scorpius’ robe fell, his pale forearms dazzling as they coiled around Harry’s neck, as a hard shove pushed their lower bodies together. “Shoot my … your piss all over me. Mine … yours, if you want. Before. After. I…” His drawls turned into sobs as the pressure mounted against their crotch, as he rubbed and frotted, as the tangled mess of fabric caught and pulled on the head of their cocks every now and then. “Please, Harry, tell me … I can go. Order your Auror Scorpius. Go with me. Come with me … I don’t care ...”  
  
Harry’s sobriety—what remained of it—was no match to this. He was getting off. Humping. Climbing—with Scorpius, to wherever they’d be before they’d fall. He needed this just as bad, just as long. What had it been—months? years?— since he could free himself of the burdens of his life? That he could empty himself, relieve himself …  
  
There was no way he could find the hem or the folds of Scorpius’ robe. He tore the fabric open and dipped his hand inside, in search for the swollen flesh that so desperately needed his touch. Scorpius’ cock was stiff and leaking—of what Harry didn’t know, couldn’t care. He grabbed it and pulled at it, twisted the head and fed the liquid into the folds of the foreskin. When his ministration wasn’t working fast enough—when Scorpius wept loudly, when the noises he made were no more than groans of pain and his muscles were taut and his tendons bulging from discomfort, Harry knew he had to go … for the bulls’ eye.  
  
Scorpius cried out when Harry filled him—first with a spell, then, his fingers. Tearing off the lower half of his robe himself, Scorpius soon began to ride Harry’s hand in wild abandon, twisting his torso and pistoning his arse against the three fingers inside him, all the while begging and pleading—to please let him  _go_ , to please let him  _come_ —until he found what he sought and climaxed so hard and with such force that his shudders shoved the table top behind him off its legs.  
  
It fell with a crash. Scorpius collapsed against Harry’s shoulder, clinging onto Harry and panting as if he’d reclaimed his breaths from Death.  
  
It was then, when Harry felt the first warmth seeping into the space between them. The trickle was weak to start, yet wet and heavy and smelling of musk, stout and … desperation. As its weight bore upon him, as the soiled pool of fabric on his robe spread and gained translucence where it’d pulled taut against his cock, Harry, too, let himself go.  
  
The warmth—the intimacy—passaged down his thighs and his calves, echoed in his ears as the tingling sounds of liquid hit the wooden floor. The stream seemed to go on forever; both of them had much to let go of. Scorpius began to sob again as Harry started patting him on his back, as their release showed the first sign of faltering and would soon ebb into cold, broken beads. But it was not until after Scorpius had finally gathered enough strength to straighten in his arms that Harry saw the spent cock huddled against his own, limp as it nestled among the blond curls, deathly pale as it sought in vain for refuge under the damp edge of a torn robe. He wrapped his hand around it and when Scorpius attempted to speak, his eyes too bright, too sharp to belong to a drunk, it was Harry’s turn to kiss their mouths shut. He fished out his wand and with a spell, Summoned the mugs on the floor and filled them to the brim with stout.  
  
He’d brought this place for the night so that nobody had to talk.

 

 


End file.
